


Hablar

by Laiska



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Arguing, Friendship, Gen, Mild Language, Platonic Relationships, Pre-Canon, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Racial Tensions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 02:19:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9798170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laiska/pseuds/Laiska
Summary: Morrison is fond of the radio. Reyes doesn't agree with his tastes.Sometimes it's best not to assume.





	

Morrison loved the radio.

As much was clear from the time he spent laid back in the break room of the task force's provisional headquarters, on the rare occasions at home base when they weren't in briefings or prepping for missions. He liked to lounge on the sofa, half-dozing to the antiquated broadcasts, or else sit at rapt attention on the edge of his seat, staring at the speaker grill like it was a holoscreen, as though he could see through the soundwaves to the action. It was almost charming, if not excruciatingly backwards. The man would be better off in a twentieth century comic book; Reyes had told him as much.

Reyes lumbered into the room to find the same scene as always—the young Captain Freedom-wannabe with his legs crossed casually, leaning against the cushions with a stack of file folders fanned out on the table before him. The radio played softly.

"That classified intel, Morrison?"

The commander nodded at the papers, grunting a greeting. Morrison shook his head.

"Military training files," he said. "Declassified."

"Studying up on old tactics again?"

"You can learn a lot from what's come before."

"If the old ways worked we wouldn't have changed them."

"Sometimes we innovate needlessly."

Reyes narrowed his eyes, but Morrison's mouth was pressed in a thin line. Everything he said and did dripped with sincerity. Reyes couldn't argue. He shrugged and turned to the counter at the wall to fiddle with a coffee pod. Arms folded, he waited as liquid trickled into the government-issued mug, listening with disinterest to the tinny sound from the speaker across the room. A woman's voice spoke rapidly. Every so often Morrison would squint or comment under his breath, face betraying his emotions less than his actions did, apparently unaware that he was being watched. Reyes dumped a cream into his coffee and joined him across the table. As he sat, the woman's voice faded out to a blaring jingle followed by another rapid spray of monologue—a commercial, presumably. Reyes was too busy burning his tongue to listen closely, though he caught a few words. Something something _liquidación_. He looked up and frowned.

"What are you listening to?" he grumbled, coughing when a few errant drops jumped into his windpipe.

"The news."

Reyes raised an eyebrow. "You speak Spanish?"

For once, Morrison's face changed. His brows knit, puzzled. "Of course I do. Why?"

Reyes shrugged and leaned back, arms crossed. He took another sip, cautiously.

"Nothing. I'm just surprised. White bread guy like you."

There was a brief pause before Morrison sat up, straight and tall, couch frame whining beneath his bulk.

"There are nearly 80 million native speakers in this country. What kind of person would I be if I didn't know how to talk to them?" After a pause, he added, "I'm sure you know some of those people."

"'Those people'?"

Reyes felt something sour in his throat. He downed the rest of his mug.

"Well now," he chuckled, after a beat, wiping his mustache with the back of his hand. "So glad that _my people_ have the consideration of the great white man. Does his grace know no bounds?"

Morrison folded back. Those blonde brows furrowed again.

"I didn't mean it like that," he sighed. "Listen, Reyes, I _care_ about my country, and that includes everyone in it. How am I supposed to help people—to get to know them—if I can't communicate with them? Honestly I ought to have studied other ones too. _Hell_ , I'd learn Latin if I thought it'd help me save lives." He shoved his folders back into a stack. "So, sorry if that's _horrible_ of me."

 _Hm_. Reyes's gaze flickered away and back to find those utterly stereotypical blue eyes glaring at him. He set the dirty mug down on the table with a _thunk_ , standing.

"You're full of shit, Morrison."

And without elaborating Reyes sauntered to the window, staring out at the rocky scenery. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. As he clicked on his lighter, there was a low grumble across the room.

"You can't smoke in here," Morrison snapped.

"Oh, can't I?" Reyes took a drag, and flipped the lighter shut.

Morrison gathered his folders in a huff, and stalked out of the room.

* * *

 

The next time that Reyes caught Morrison in a broadcast-induced reverie, he was listening to music. It was something slow and poppish. Was it contemporary? Reyes wouldn't know; the trends were beyond his interests. Still, something about it had a familiar feeling. He didn't ask or comment on it as he walked past to raid the refrigerator for his leftover plate from their catered lunchtime briefing. Morrison was eating what appeared to be a bag of plain celery and flipping through a magazine—a _print_ magazine.

"Where do you even find those?"

Morrison looked up, mid-bite. "Come again?"

"The mags, Morrison, and the newspapers. All these things you keep bringing in here. You raid a museum or something?"

The blonde man frowned. "I go to the newsstand. They sell them there. Where else would I get my information?"

"Uh." Reyes reached into his deep jacket pocket and pulled out a hand-sized tablet. He held it aloft and rapped on the side, raising his eyebrows.

"Not secure," Morrison mumbled through a mouthful. "Anyway, digital media doesn't have any curation. People can say whatever nonsense they want. Too much noise."

Reyes reeled internally. Was this guy in his 20s or his 80s?

"I can think of a lot of problems with that. Also, where the hell do you find a newsstand? Everyone's staying indoors."

Morrison grinned and tapped his head. "That's classified."

"Charming."

It was several more minutes of shuffling around the break room before Reyes put a finger on why the music was bothering him.

"Morrison, you're from where, Indiana? Shouldn't a farm boy like you be listening to country or something?"

"Heard too much growing up, honestly. Sometimes it gets me nostalgic, but most times it just feels stifling. So, it's not my first choice."

"So instead you're listening to what? Merengue?"

"I guess you could call it that. Why? Don't you like it?"

Reyes narrowed his eyes. " _No, it's not my first choice._ Turn it off."

Morrison clenched his now-empty fist. "Why?"

"That was an order."

The two locked eyes. Several moments passed in silence, then finally, Morrison complied. The radio clicked.

Silence.

Reyes ate his leftovers in peace.

* * *

 

The next few encounters began to form a pattern.

Reyes, upon encountering Morrison, would find a reason to criticize his taste, and Morrison would rebut it. Inevitably, the argument escalated, and when it grew to an untenable point, Reyes shut it down.

Others began to notice. Outside of the walls, the pair were a well-oiled machine, but behind doors, things were unraveling.

Passing glances in the halls were marked with irritation. They began to speak to one another less often.

Morrison couldn't work out what it was he had done to set the commander off, but then that was Reyes, combative and inscrutable. He wrote it off. They had work to do.

Even so...

* * *

 

As always, Morrison was the first in the room.

They had begun coordinating their breaks to avoid one another, but it was inevitable that their paths would cross eventually.

When he saw Reyes enter, he began to gather his things to leave.

"You can stay where you are, Princess," Reyes rumbled, pulling open the door to a cabinet. "I'm just getting a few things."

"Seems like enough time for you to find something to chew me out for."

Without looking back, Reyes glared.

"Don't flatter yourself, Morrison. I don't give a damn what you do."

The sound of something clattering rang behind him. Crumpling paper, and Morrison's voice growing louder.

"The _hell_ you don't. You seem to have a problem with every damn thing about me lately. One of these days you're going to tell me I blink wrong."

"Then maybe you should just learn to fucking blink, ever think of that? Anyway, I don't care, not my problem."

"Oh yeah? So I can do whatever I want around here then, and you won't complain?"

"Fine by me."

"So I can turn on the radio?"

"Do it."

"Okay, great. Then I will."

Reyes continued to rummage, as if to forcibly ignore the _click_ behind him, and the rising sound. There was static, and some interference. Finally, it settled onto a station. A woman talking—Morrison's apparent favorite program. Reyes tried more desperately to ignore it.

He couldn't.

"Are you trying to prove a point, Morrison?"

Now he turned, fist in a ball. Morrison was glaring at the unit and trying desperately not to create eye contact. When he did, his gaze was stony.

"And just what point would that be, Reyes?"

"Out of all the goddamn stations on this radio, why do you keep coming back to this one? Are you trying to show me something? You're intelligent and worldly, _I get it, great_. _Listen to something else already_."

Morrison rose from his seat, slow and deliberate. He crossed the room with the same care, to stop face to face with the commander, eyes set and chest puffed. Reyes drew himself up to meet him.

"What I want to know," Morrison growled, "is why you have such a goddamn problem with what I listen to… If anything I figured you'd enjoy this."

Reyes snarled and grabbed out, catching Morrison up by his neat collar, his action just as fast as any possible reaction. Morrison's throat clicked. He held his ground.

"And why the hell is that?" growled Reyes.

The fight immediately drained from Morrison's face. He seemed dumbfounded, his eyes and mouth drooping. "Because…" he started.

"Because _what_?"

He stared Morrison down, searching. Then, Reyes laughed.

"My god." He shoved him away so that Morrison took a stumbling step backward, though he never lost composure. "You _really_ thought."

"I don't know what you're—"

" _Fine_ , you wanna know something, asshole? You thought I'd be into this stuff? Well, guess what? _I don't speak Spanish._ "

The silence was deafening.

After moments, the whine of the radio came into focus to break it. Morrison's face faltered.

"But you're…"

"What? _Mexican?_ I'm American, Jack! As American as you are. I grew up in fucking SoCal, around a bunch of cornfed white boys like you—though I guess not all of them were as _conscientious_."

Morrison's shoulders drooped. "Reyes… You never learned?"

"No. I didn't. There something wrong with that? Not everybody has the same _aptitude_ as you, Morrison."

His already rough voice fell in register.

"But, I was born _in this country_. I put my _life_ on the line for this country. And I will _die_ for this country. So don't you sit there and tell me that I don't _love_ my country, my _culture_ , just because I never fucking _learned_ something!"

"Gabriel…" Morrison's eyes were clouded. They turned up slowly. "I never said any of that."

Morrison backed down, then, pausing, stood straight. He looked Reyes square on.

"I don't know who would even try to insinuate something like that, but it isn't me. You're one of the bravest soldiers I've ever met. Everyone agrees. The fact that _you're_ the commanding officer must mean something for that, don't you think?"

Reyes said nothing. His chest was still boiling. He began to reach into his pocket for his lighter.

"Look, I'm sorry," Morrison continued, "if I touched some old wound. You're my friend, Gabe. Just talk to me, next time."

The commander slipped a cigarette between his lips, but didn't light it. He rolled his lighter in his fingertips. His gaze traveled across the room in several directions, then finally, came back up to meet him.

"I'm not apologizing," he said.

"I don't expect you to. But can we just get along again?"

Reyes thumbed the trigger of the lighter. It clicked several times before catching a spark, then whistled as he flipped it right back shut. He leaned back against the cabinet to stare at nothing. Finally, he let out a long sigh.

"Yeah… I guess we can." He mimed at lighting the cigarette again. "Just don't make any more assumptions."

"I won't. At least I'll try my damnedest."

"Tch." He looked away. "You really are a good guy, aren't you, Morrison? Mr. Hero."

Morrison smiled. "And so are you, Reyes."

He held out his hand, but Reyes passed him by, occupied.

"Stepping out for a smoke," he explained.

"Alright."

Before Reyes could pass through the door, Morrison held up his hand. The commander glanced back.

"You know," Morrison said, "I could teach you sometime."

Reyes looked up. His lips were pressed, but his eyes softened.

"I'll pass."

He stepped into the hallway.

"But, _gracias_."

**Author's Note:**

> The first fic I've written in almost two years! It's good to get the rust off. I imagine this being set in the very early days of Overwatch, possibly before the task force was even formally established. As usual I ended up overthinking a jokey headcanon—I've seen a lot of fics that have Reaper using Spanish, but unlike other characters, we have no canon evidence that he speaks anything besides English (whereas Jack does, assuming from the "Hero" short). So I thought, it's possible he doesn't speak any at all. Given that we don't know the specifics of Reyes's lineage, it's just as safe to assume that he wouldn't necessarily have grown up speaking Spanish, even if he was likely exposed to and understands at least some.
> 
> Anyway, that's just my headcanon. I love thinking about these dorks back how they would've been in the "good old days." Hope you enjoyed the read!


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